384- 


1555 


fi 


UC-NRLF 


73b 


SUSAN 
WHITCOHB 


GIFT  OF 


THE   OLD   HOME 


SUSAN  WHITCOHB  HASSELL 


FRYE  &  SniTH,  PRINTERS 
SRH  DIEGO.  CAL. 


\ 


1 


Copyright     1911 
by    S.    W.    Hassell 


brother  anil  Sister,  frauds  and  neighbors 
mho  knewr  nw  Father  and  TOother  and  hold  them 
in  gtmr  hearts  toriag,  for  gnu  are  thtse  pictures 
of  the  golden  gears  when  onr  unbroken  familg 
rirrle  of  seuen  filled  the  ©Id  Home. 


CONTENTS 

Page 

At  the  Gate                  .  ...                9 

House  and  Garden  15 

The  Willow  31 

The  Meadow  Harvest  32 

Father              .  35 

Ascutney        .                            .  49 

Mother  and  Good  Times  at  Home  5 1 

A  Perfect  Day  on  the  Prairie  6 1 

Hard  Times                          .  67 

Some  Other  People  75 

As  We  Say  Good-by  .                                                                          93 


AT  THE  GATE 


The  Old  Home.  Just  a  plain  white  house  set  well  back  from  the 
street  among  tall  trees  and  fragrant  shrubs.  Within,  a  busy,  careful 
mother,  often  weary,  a  man  of  cheerful  face  and  brisk  step,  passing  regu- 
larly to  and  from  his  work  at  the  shop  for  more  than  twenty-five  years, 
five  children  for  whom  these  parents  toiled  and  planned. 

Is  it  a  common  picture? 

But  there  was  something  more  than  that,  a  spirit  in  that  home  which 
made  its  daily  life  a  delight  and  transmuted  commonplace  things  into  rare 
treasures.  Something  of  joy  shone  within  its  \valls  which  richer  homes 
have  sought  in  vain.  Something  of  content  nestled  there  which  those 
more  favored  have  failed  to  capture. 

Men  and  women  who  cherish  old-fashioned  things  and  find  your 
pleasures  in  simple  and  natural  ways,  come  with  me.  Let  me  show  you 
the  Old  Home. 

Page  nine 


*  *  * "  '  Tne  town  I  want  you  to  see  lies  in  the  fairest  of  the  Mississippi  val- 
ley States.  Its  streets  are  lined  with  giant  maples  and  elms  of  half  a 
century's  growth.  The  fine  homes  showing  among  their  branches  speak 
of  comfort  and  prosperity  and  cosmopolitan  taste.  There  are  no  slums,  no 
tenement  districts,  nor  any  corner  which  by  a  stretch  of  imagination  sug- 
gests them.  A  few  streets  are  noisy  with  the  pavement  rattle  of  hoofs 
and  wheels  but  there  are  no  street  cars  to  drown  your  thoughts  with  their 
rush.  Automobiles  are  not  so  many  as  to  forbid  a  peaceful  walk  along 
the  shady  avenues.  No  smoke  of  shops  and  factories  defiles  the  atmos- 
phere. No  saloon  sign  has  ever  disgraced  the  streets. 

A  dead  town,  you  conclude.  True,  it  has  created  no  stir  in  the  world 
of  business  and  finance.  Its  population  is  told  in  four  figures.  Yet  its 
name  is  honored  across  the  continent.  Speak  it.  If  you  talk  to  one  who 
values  intellectual  ideals  the  response  is  a  smile  of  recognition,  for  here 
flourishes  an  institution  of  the  kind  such  people  count  most  profitable,  a 
factory  whose  product  is  trained  men  and  women. 

Page  ten 


No,  it  is  not  a  dead  town;  nor  is  it  dull,  unless  it  be  so  to  the  few 
who  have  no  interest  in  the  college,  no  children  to  attend,  no  student  room- 
ers or  boarders,  no  appetite  for  its  program  of  "meets  and  eats  and  other 
treats".  Those  few  are  indeed  unfortunate. 

Quiet  the  town  is  through  the  long  summer  vacation  while  the  sun 
blazes  upon  a  deserted  campus,  but  from  September  to  June  when  hun- 
dreds of  Iowa's  strong  youths  and  bright  maidens  crowd  the  walks  and 
keep  the  air  astir  with  their  enthusiasm  and  merriment,  oh,  then  it  is  a 
very  lively  town. 

At  Commencement  time  the  students  of  by-gone  years  return  to  visit 
Alma  Mater.  Some  are  men  and  women  in  middle  life  and  some  have 
snowy  hair.  From  east  and  west  they  come,  from  pulpit  and  foreign  field, 
from  legislative  halls,  from  editor's  office  and  banker's  desk  and  univer- 
sity chair,  men  and  women  of  influence  and  affluence. 

Their  loyal  love  for  the  old  college  is  only  equalled  by  the  pride  the 
town  feels  in  them  and  their  careers.  No  prophet  is  without  honor  in  this 

Page  eleven 


country.  ''Do  you  see  that  fine-looking  fellow  sitting  up  there  by  the 
President?"  a  farmer  whispered  to  his  neighbor.  "Well,  he  worked  for 
me  two  summers.  Ate  with  the  family  too,  and  now  they  say  he's  liable 
to  go  to  Congress." 

Today  the  roads  leading  out  from  the  town  make  a  checkerboard  of 
the  country  for  miles  around.  They  are  lined  with  comfortable  houses. 
Rural  mail-boxes,  telephone  lines,  the  frequent  carriage  house  or  garage, 
the  great  herds  of  stock  and  big  barns  witness  to  the  wealth  and  progress 
of  the  farmer. 

The  visitor  with  gray  hair  remembers  when  all  was  otherwise,  when 
the  town  was  but  a  handful  of  humble  houses  scattered  upon  a  wind- 
swept prairie,  when  the  college  was  housed  in  two  modest  brick  buildings. 
Then  students  were  fortunate  who  got  a  chance  at  sawing  wood  on  Sat- 
urdays to  earn  tuition  fees.  Then  country  roads  went  winding  over  the 
prairie  like  the  contour  drives  of  a  California  park,  and  after  the  spring 
thaw  the  low  spots  were  veritable  sloughs  of  despond.  Then  a  short  row 

Page  twelve 


of  one-story  store  fronts  constituted  the  main  business  street,  and  the 
richest  farmer's  principal  wealth  was  his  faith  in  next  year's  wheat  crop. 

Even  in  those  days  this  town  was  known  as  a  center  of  the  best  things. 
It  stood  for  high  ideals.  Already  it  had  what  in  man  or  woman  we  call 
strong  personality. 

It  is  the  town  as  it  was  in  those  days  that  I  want  you  to  see,  and  some 
of  the  men  and  women  who  made  it,  and  that  one  Home  which  seems  to 
me  the  best  of  all,  for  it  reflected  always  the  finest  things  which  town 
and  college  stood  for,  and  had  besides  a  quality  of  its  own. 


Page  thirteen 


HOUSE  AND  GARDEN 


Gone  arc  they,  but  I  have  them  in  my  soul. — Browning 

Who  planned  the  house  I  do  not  know.  Unpretentious  as  it  was,  it 
seemed  well-fitted  to  the  family  requirements  and  it  had  a  distinctive  appear- 
ance. It  was  modelled  after  the  spacious  two-story  New  England  houses, 
with  wide,  central  front  door,  long  narrow  hall  windows  on  either  side, 
and  broad,  straight  stairway  leading  to  the  upper  hall.  The  model  had 
been  cut  down  a  little  but  it  was  still  as  wide  as  the  family  needs  and  as 
long  as  the  family  pocketbook.  In  its  first  years  it  was  quite  the  largest 
house  of  the  town  and  sometimes  accommodated  two  or  three  extra  fami- 
lies at  once. 

Some  penalty  ought  to  be  visited  upon  the  man  who  builds  a  row  of 
uniform  houses.  Be  he  factory  owner  or  ambitious  promoter,  he  is  no 
friend  to  society.  Imagine  the  feelings  of  a  child  who  has  been  brought 

Page  fifteen 


up  in  one  of  them.  It  must  require  exceptional  strength  of  character  for 
him  to  feel  that  he  is  a  distinct  person  and  not  just  one  of  the  herd.  It  is 
a  business  blunder,  too,  for  you  may  notice  that  the  furniture-mover's 
van  appears  oftenest  in  front  of  those  houses. 

This  house,  you  may  be  sure,  was  not  just  like  any  other.  It  had 
individuality. 

It  was  placed  well  back  from  the  west  front,  and  to  the  north  side,  so 
that  the  south  sun  had  always  free  entrance.  And  the  yard!  Can  you, 
resident  of  the  banner  boom  town  in  some  progressive  young  State,  believe 
me  when  I  tell  you  that  in  this  old-fashioned  village  a  residence  lot  was 
seventy-five  feet  in  width  and  one  hundred  and  sixty  feet  deep?  Four  of 
these  magnificent  lots  in  the  heart  of  the  town-to-be,  this  father  bought 
for  his  home  property.  One  was  for  house  and  lawn,  one  for  garden, 
and  the  two  across  the  alley  were  for  barn  and  chicken  yard  and  the 
young  apple  orchard. 

Page  sixteen 


Next  in  stupidity  or  moral  obliquity  to  the  man  who  builds  a  row  is 
the  mercenary  real-estate  promoter  who  lays  out  an  addition  in  twenty-five- 
foot  lots.  Freedom  of  action  and  self-respect  require  space.  Besides,  who 
wants  always  to  smell  his  neighbor's  soup  a-stewing?  A  narrow  lot  or 
even  an  apartment  may  do  for  business  women  and  for  tourists,  but  people 
who  try  to  bring  up  a  family  without  a  real  yard  must  find  themselves 
seriously  handicapped. 

The  house  seemed  to  lack  nothing  important.  It  had  its  parlor,  never 
shut  up  and  musty  but  bright  with  the  afternoon  sun  pouring  in,  and  its 
big  dining  room  which  was  also  living  room.  What  need  was  there  of 
library  ?  There  was  a  swinging  book-case  in  the  dining  room,  corner  what- 
not in  the  parlor,  and  a  shelf  for  books  in  every  bedroom. 

What  need  of  den?  After  the  supper  was  cleared  away  the  cheer- 
ful red  cloth  was  spread  and  the  table  was  big  enough  for  all  the  school- 
books  and  for  mother's  work  basket,  while  father  sat  comfortably  by  the 
fire  and  chatted  or  napped  over  his  plate  of  apples.  Nobody  wanted  to  go 

Page  seventeen 


off  to  a  den  and  growl.  Nobody  wanted  to  be  out  of  the  circle.  They 
liked  to  be  all  together. 

The  choicest  beauty  of  that  living-room  was  in  its  woods.  Doors  and 
casings  and  base-boards  were  of  black  walnut,  oak,  and  butternut  or  white 
walnut,  cut  from  the  timber  strip  on  Sugar  Creek  only  a  few  miles  away 
and  sawed  at  a  little  mill  near  by.  They  had  been  fitted,  unfortunately,  be- 
fore they  were  thoroughly  seasoned,  but  their  coloring,  unspoiled  by  var- 
nish or  stain  grew  richer  and  mellower  with  every  passing  year. 

Attic  and  cellar  and  wood  shed  are  not  included  in  the  plans  of  the 
modern  bungalow,  but  they  were  all  essential  parts  of  this  house.  The  attic 
extended  over  kitchen  and  shed.  In  its  east  end  were  dove-cotes,  and, 
spite  of  the  hostility  of  the  black  and  white  cat,  the  birds  rested  their  deli- 
cate irridescence  on  the  grass,  as  graceful,  as  tame,  as  well-fed  as  the 
famed  pigeons  of  St.  Marks. 

The  attic-room  was  entered  from  an  east  chamber,  and  what  a 
treasure-house  it  was.  Here  were  boxes  of  pop-corn  and  hazel-nuts  and 

Page  eighteen 


hickory-nuts  (the  small  white  kind)  and  sometimes  black  walnuts.  Bags  of 
dried  sweet  corn  with  every  bit  of  sugar  left  in  the  grain.  Long  bunches 
of  corn  dried  on  the  ear,  too.  These  were  for  parching,  as  many  as  the 
children  cared  to  husk  and  silk.  They  belonged  to  the  one  who  had  gath- 
ered them,  and  mother  had  taught  them  how  to  leave  a  few  husks  to  be 
braided  tightly  together  so  that  one  bunch  held  many  ears. 

Thoroughwort,  perhaps  you  call  it  bone-set,  three  big  bunches  gath- 
ered from  the  slough  over  across  Park  Street.  "Arms  as  full  as  you  can 
carry",  mother  used  to  say.  It  hung  in  the  attic  until  spring  languor  re- 
minded father  to  call  for  it  and  he  drank  the  tea,  dark  and  bitter,  with  a 
smack  of  relish. 

The  cellar  was  a  luxury  for  those  days.  It  was  large  and  deep,  and 
well-ventilated  and  walled  with  stone  to  the  bottom.  It  was  never  known 
to  freeze,  but  sometimes  on  the  coldest  nights  a  tub  of  water  or  a  burning 
lantern  helped  to  maintain  its  reputation. 

Page  nineteen 


Merchants  were  glad  to  secure  a  corner  of  it  for  storing  their  winter 
apples,  and  what  an  exciting  day  it  was  for  the  children  when  the  fine-smell- 
ing barrels  were  rolled  noisily  down  the  hatch-way  stairs  and  stacked  up  in 
the  farthest  corner. 

That  cellar  housed  more  supplies  every  winter  than  many  a  modern  cor- 
ner grocery.  There  seems  small  need  of  laying  in  stores  in  this  time  of 
telephones  and  delivery  wagons  and  paper-bags  and  delicatessen  shops. 
In  the  day  of  the  Old  Home  and  with  the  habits  of  that  industrious  New 
England  pair  it  was  different.  I  think  the  family  might  have  stood  a  six- 
months'  siege  without  lack. 

There  were  bins  of  potatoes  and  turnips  and  the  other  root-vege- 
tables, and  cabbage  and  squash,  three  or  four  barrels  of  the  favorite  apples, 
like  the  Bell  Flowers  and  Golden  Russets  and  Jonathans  and  Rhode  Island 
Greenings,  a  barrel  of  salt  pork  (corn-fed),  one  of  corned  beef,  bags  of 
sausage  and  fragrant  hams,  wood-smoked,  jars  of  mince-meat,  jars  of 
June  butter,  jars  of  lard,  "tried  out"  in  the  kitchen,  boxes  of  packed  eggs, 

Page  twenty 


pickles  sweet  and  sour,  and  a  cupboard  of  preserves  and  jellies  and  spiced 
currants. 

It  may  be  that  our  short-order  way  of  feeding  a  family  has  its  influence 
in  other  matters,  too,  and  that  we  are  not  so  sure  to  take  a  long  look  ahead 
for  consequences  as  did  our  parents.  Surely  in  that  family  there  was 
wise  fore-sightedness.  Provisions  meant  pre-vision.  The  father  was  the 
provider ;  the  mother  saw  to  it  that  the  last  loaf  was  never  cut. 

Bordering  the  lawn  were  bushes  of  purple  lilacs,  and  roses,  the  little 
double  white  Scotch  rose,  the  big  yellow  ones,  the  gentle  blush  rose,  and 
over  a  south  window  climbed  a  prairie  queen.  Still  there  was  room  for 
an  elm  and  a  few  maples  and  an  ash  so  near  that  one  spring  wondering 
eyes  looked  down  from  an  upper  window  into  a  robin's  nest  and  watched 
the  whole  drama  of  bird-life,  from  gathering  straws  and  strings  to  squawk- 
ing fledglings. 

Page  twenty-one 


In  the  back  yard  was  a  little  clump  of  wild  plum  trees  brought  from 
the  neighboring  woods,  a  mountain-ash,  and  a  choke-cherry  tree  which 
father  called  the  bird's  tree. 

The  crowning  glory  of  the  east  yard  was  a  tall  white  willow.  It 
came  as  a  slender  cutting  from  far-off  Maine.  A  woman's  thrift  had 
planted  and  guarded  it.  In  one  year  it  had  grown  to  be  as  tall  as  the 
little  girl  who  watched  her  mother  put  it  into  the  ground.  It  was  always 
straight  and  symmetrical  and  every  year  it  made  a  surprising  growth.  Soon 
it  was  large  enough  to  hold  a  swing  and  the  little  ones  rocked  away  many 
a  summer  hour  in  it.  High  up  among  its  branches  boys,  and  girls  too, 
perched  and  talked  or  read  or  thought.  From  its  top  on  July  Fourth 
floated  the  flag.  One  daughter  of  the  house  declares  that  in  the  willow 
she  learned  the  fifty-one  rules  of  Latin  syntax  and  tied  each  one  to  a 
separate  limb.  Still  it  towered  and  spread,  looking  down  upon  the  older 
maples  and  elms,  the  house,  upon  everything  except  the  two  sentinel  cot- 
ton-woods which  stood  guard  at  the  front  gateway. 

Page  twenty-two 


Sometimes  the  father  stretched  himself  upon  the  green  in  its  shade  to 
catch  a  noon-time  nap.  Sometimes  two  little  neighbor  girls  of  five  or  six 
played  "cubby-house"  with  bits  of  broken  china  for  dishes. 

One  July  day  the  father  led  his  ten-year-old  girl  to  the  seat  under  the 
willow  and  told  her  that  God  had  given  her  a  little  brother,  had  given 
papa  a  son.  We  must  be  very  thankful.  Here  on  an  evening  years  later 
a  daughter  of  the  house  listened  to  a  lover  as  he  told  an  ancient  story  and 
she  promised  to  leave  the  old  home  and  help  him  to  make  another  farther 
west. 

On  the  south  side  of  the  lawn  was  a  row  of  shrubs  and  perennial 
plants,  the  snow-ball,  the  flowering  currant,  loved  by  the  honey-bees,  flow- 
er de  luce,  and  dwarf  iris,  a  flowering  almond,  live-forever  (good  to  make 
thimbles  of,  you  know),  southern-wood  (why  should  any  one  call  it  old 
man?)  and  rosemary  and  hollyhocks.  Then  came  the  beds  where  seeds 
were  sown  early  in  May,  soon  brilliant  with  bloom  until  the  first  frost 
came.  There  was  the  morning  primrose  and  four  o'clocks,  "youth,  man- 

Page  twenty-three 


hood,  and  old  age"  and  mourning  bride,  portulacca  and  petunias,  bach- 
elor buttons  and  ragged  lady  and  larkspur,  the  velvet  marigold,  gay  pop- 
pies, columbine  and  spicy  clove  pinks  and  the  graceful  coreopsis.  One  bed 
was  saved  for  the  verbenas,  which  all  winter  had  been  house  plants  and 
filled  a  south  window  with  their  purple  and  scarlet  and  white  blossoms. 

These  all  made  but  a  strip  along  the  front  of  the  garden  and  on  the 
edge  of  the  lawn. 

Bordered  by  a  row  of  Early  Richmond  and  Black  Morello  cherry 
trees  on  a  third  side,  and  on  the  fourth  by  the  currant-bushes  and  rasp- 
berries and  blackberries,  was  a  large  space  open  to  the  plow  which  consti- 
tuted the  vegetable  garden.  This  was  the  father's  special  care.  It  was 
his  gymnasium  and  bowling  alley  and  golf  links  and  tennis  court.  Usu- 
ally he  worked  an  hour  or  two  before  breakfast  with  hoe  and  rake.  He 
loved  the  morning  air  and  he  loved  to  work,  and  there  was  a  mingling  of 
triumph  and  pity  in  the  smile  with  which  he  greeted  those  who  came  down 
sleepily  just  at  breakfast  time. 

Page  twenty-four 


And  the  results, — long  rows  of  sweet  corn,  fine  for  playing  "hide  and 
seek"  in,  early  potatoes,  crisp  lettuce  and  radishes,  "new  potatoes  and 
green  peas  on  the  Fourth  of  July",  peas  early  and  late,  beans,  bush  and 
pole,  tomatoes  and  cucumbers. 

His  asparagus  bed  was  the  envy  of  a  good  many  gardeners  who  tried 
to  equal  it  and  failed.  They  didn't  know  the  secret,  but  I'll  tell  you.  Empty 
the  brine  from  those  barrels  in  the  cellar  on  the  bed  in  early  spring.  The 
tips  were  so  tender  and  fragrant  and  abundant!  If  they  were  cut  every 
other  evening  the  supply  lasted  for  weeks,  the  delight  of  the  home  break- 
fast table,  and  many  a  favored  friend  and  invalid  shared  the  treat.  The 
bed  served  another  purpose  later  in  the  season.  For  years  it  furnished  the 
favorite  decoration  for  schoolhouse  aand  church,  and  even  for  that  supreme 
occasion  of  the  year — college  commencement.  To  me  it  seems  quite  as 
beautiful  as  the  popular  asparagus  plumosa,  especially  when  its  berries  are 
red.  But  those  things  are  settled  chiefly  by  fashion. 

Page  twenty-five 


This  gardener  had  good  reason  to  be  proud  of  his  straight,  clean  rows 
and  thrifty  vines.  Seldom  did  any  hand  but  his  touch  the  work  after  the 
spring  plowing  was  done.  But  he  was  thorough  and  persistent  and  the 
weeds  had  small  chance  to  get  ahead  of  him,  unless  the  rains  lasted  several 
days. 

But  were  there  no  enemies  in  this  Eden,  do  you  ask?  Yes,  and  they 
were  speedily  met  and  slain,  like  the  weeds.  For  the  cut-worm  there  was  a 
sharp  knife.  For  the  squash-bug  two  smooth  sticks.  For  the  thieving 
birds  when  cherries  were  ripe,  there  was  the  "bird  tree"  for  a  bribe,  and  a 
child  with  instructions  to  keep  sharp  watch.  For  the  Colorado  potato 
beetle,  a  tin  can  and  a  speedy  Gehenna  with  fierce  flames.  Not  even  this 
tender-hearted  man  would  follow  the  example  of  the  Concord  philosopher 
who  "emptied  the  can  over  the  fence". 

This  was  all  in  a  day  and  in  a  family  where  evil  was  called  evil,  and 
sin  was  more  than  error.  I  am  convinced  that  the  smooth  flow  of  the  fam- 

Page  twenty-six 


ily  life  was  largely  due  to  that  same  direct  way  of  meeting  an  evil  thing 
without  fear  or  favor,  and  having  done  with  it  once  for  all. 

I  must  hand  on  a  tradition  about  the  introduction  of  one  of  those  ob- 
noxious plants,  although  I  cannot  vouch  for  its  historic  truth.  They  say  that 
long  ago  a  lady  received  some  seeds  from  friends  in  the  east  and  with  the 
plants  came  up  a  few  purslane  leaves.  "It's  pusly,"  she  said,  "and  good  for 
greens.  We'll  let  it  grow."  And  today  her  grandchildren  are  still  trying 
to  weed  out  the  persistent  little  pest. 

Of  course  we  all  know  that  those  who  must  eat  their  vegetables  and 
fruits  from  city  markets  or  from  cans,  miss  a  good  thing.  Peas  must  be 
fresh  from  the  garden  or  they  have  lost  the  glame.  But  have  you  ever 
thought  that  the  difference  in  relish  may  be,  at  least  in  part,  a  difference  in 
adaptation  of  the  chemical  elements?  It  would  take  a  Chicago  professor 
to  demonstrate  this,  but  I  mean  that  possibly  the  human  system  demands 
each  product  of  the  soil  in  proper  succession, — pie-plant  in  April,  green 
gooseberries  in  May,  strawberries  in  June,  and  so  on  down  to  the  last 

Page  twenty-seven 


bunch  of  October  grapes.  All-the-year  sunshine  is  a  luxury,  but  one  pays 
a  price  for  it.  He  must  lose  the  matchless  flavor  of  vegetables  and  fruits 
each  in  its  own  appointed  season. 

He  loses,  too,  the  panorama  of  the  year.  Even  the  garden  on  the 
prairie  had  its  seasons.  On  the  morning  after  the  first  killing  frost  the 
green  tomatoes  must  be  picked,  three  baskets  full  for  home,  then  word  to 
the  neighbors  that  they  might  come  and  pick  for  themselves. 

A  few  reddening  leaves  appeared  on  the  flowering  currant,  some  rich 
yellows  and  browns  in  the  elm  trees,  no  flame  like  that  of  sugar  maples 
on  the  Vermont  farm, — then  snow  and  drifting  winds  and  more  snow, 
and  the  garden  was  blanketed  for  a  long  sleep. 

One  year  the  deepest  drift  of  all  lay  in  the  corner  over  the  asparagus 
bed,  so  that  the  child  who  took  milk  to  the  neighbor's  walked  over  the 
dividing  fence  on  the  snow.  Marvelous  feat! 

And  after  school  to  coast  down  that  long  drift  sloping  far  out  into  the 
garden  was  excitement  and  exhilaration  enough  to  fill  two  young  souls. 

Page  twenty-eight 


No  thrill  of  roller-skating  in  crowded  halls  and  stuffy  air  could  equal  it. 

For  nearly  thirty  years,  guarded  by  the  cotton-woods  in  front  and  by 
the  proud  willow  at  the  east,  the  house  stood,  the  center  of  a  family  life 
happy  and  content,  full  of  work  and  pulsing  with  vital  interests. 

A  few  years  ago  it  made  way  for  a  modern  residence.  The  choice 
corner  with  its  old  trees  was  too  good  for  the  lowly  walls  and  they  "passed 
over." 


Page  twenty-nine 


THE  WILLOW 

The  bees  about  its  catkins  hum, 

"When  orioles  from  the  south-land  come. 

From  its  great  branches  hung  a  swing, 
And  many  a  day  in  sunny  weather, 
Two  boys  let  their  glad  shouts  out-ring 
The  whiles  they  madly  "worked  together". 

Life  does  but  mock  at  boyhood's  day — 
One  dwells  beside  the  "Father  River", 
One  in  a  city  old  and  gray, 
Where  the  Atlantic  surges  quiver. 

"We  know  them  now — the  mighty  years — 
Ah !  playmate^  playmate  like  a  brother, 
For  they  have  passed  our  boyish  fears, 
No  more  in  joy  we  "work  together". 

Yet  still  in  May  the  orioles  come, 
Yet  still  the  bees  in  music  hum. 

— From  Selden  L.  Whitcomb. 

Page  thirty-one 


THE  MEADOW  HARVEST 

"Now,  Son,  you  go  to  the  meadow, 
Where  the  thoroughwort  is  in  bloom, 

And  get  me  a  great  big  armful 
To  dry  in  the  attic-room. 

Then,  about  the  first  of  April, 
When  you're  bilious  as  can  be, 

We'll  bring  it  down  to  the  kitchen 
And  steep  some  thoroughwort  tea." 

His  trousers  were  full  of  nettles 
As  he  waded  the  prairie  "slough", 

But  he  brought  his  leafy  harvest — 
"Here,  Son,  is  a  kiss  for  you." 

0  gleam  of  the  golden  liquor 
Within  a  brimming  glass ; 

And  through  the  kitchen  window 
The  greening  April  grass. 

Page  thirty-two 


0  comrades,  boy  and  mother, 

In  autumn  and  in  spring; 
O  mound  in  the  village  graveyard 

Where  the  man  prays,  lingering. 

— From  Selden  L.  Whitcomb. 


Page  thirty-three 


FATHER 


A  man's  life  consisteth  not  in  the  abundance  of  the  things  which  he  possesseth.  — Luke. 

A  man's  life  consists  in  the  fulness  of  his  affections,  in  the  depth  of  his  sympathies,  in  the  strength 
of  his  faith,  in  the  reach  of  his  hope,  in  the  purity  of  his  love.  — McLeod. 

Recently  I  talked  with  a  man  who  lived  in  our  town  forty  years  ago 
or  so,  when  he  was  quite  a  small  boy.  He  spoke  of  the  father  in  the  Old 
Home.  "I  never  knew  him  at  all,"  he  said,  "but  I  remember  that  people 
used  to  speak  of  him  with  a  peculiar  regard.  I  have  wondered  why.  He 
was  not  a  rich  man?"  This  last  was  spoken  questioningly. 

No,  indeed,  he  was  not  rich,  nor  was  he  wise  about  books,  but  in  the 
words  of  one  who  was  both,  "He  was  a  splendid  man  to  know." 

He  was  a  worker  in  leather  all  his  life,  his  hands  were  neither  white 
nor  soft,  but  no  good  definition  of  a  true  nobleman  can  ever  be  framed 
which  would  not  include  him. 

Page  thirty-five 


He  was  a  man  of  even,  sunny  temper,  his  character  was  transparent 
simplicity,  his  spirit  kindly  and  tolerant. 

Even  a  stranger  might  count  on  him  for  a  cordial  greeting.  He  met 
acquaintances  with  genuine  interest.  To  one  who  was  needy  or  troubled 
or  a  wrong-doer,  he  gave  sympathy  and  generous  help. 

For  nearly  thirty  years  he  walked  the  same  paths  and  sat  in  the  same 
places,  consistent,  reliable,  trusted,  a  welcome  presence,  a  good  man  to 
know. 

He  was  a  Vermont  boy,  brought  up  on  a  farm,  but  as  a  lad  appren- 
ticed to  a  harness-maker  for  a  term  of  years.  At  twenty-one  he  was  dis- 
missed from  the  shop,  with  freedom-suit,  one  hundred  dollars  and  his 
trade.  He  had  earned  the  badge  of  a  master-workman.  All  his  life  he 
was  proud  of  his  thorough  handiwork.  He  boasted  that  trunks  he  had  made 
long  before,  perhaps  forty  years,  had  not  broken  a  stitch  or  loosened  a 
rivet.  Like  Miss  Ophelia  he  despised  "shiftlessness"  but  he  used  the  word 
with  more  pity  than  scorn. 

Page  thirty-six 


It  was  no  spirit  of  speculative  adventure,  no  idle  wanderlust  that 
brought  him  to  the  west.  He  had  heard  of  the  colony  planned  to  be  for- 
ever free  from  the  saloon  evil,  devoted  to  Christian  ideals  and  a  seat  of 
higher  learning.  He  thought  he  could  "do  better  for  his  family."  He 
wanted  to  go  far  enough  west,  he  said,  so  that  his  children  would  stay  near 
him  when  they  were  grown. 

So  with  wife  and  two  girls  of  five  and  three  years  he  made  the  long 
pilgrimage. 

He  was  thirty-seven  years  old  when  he  left  the  Green  Mountain  State. 
His  heart  was  deeply  rooted  there.  Those  who  knew  him  well  knew  the 
tenderness  of  feeling,  almost  akin  to  homesickness,  which  always  lingered 
in  his  heart  for  New  England.  This  was  partly  due  to  his  strong  affec- 
tion for  his  mother.  Family  ties  bound  him  closely,  especially  to  her  and 
to  his  twin  brother.  Names  of  his  old  neighbors,  of  the  "master"  whom  he 
respected  and  honored,  of  the  places  he  visited  as  a  boy  and  Mt.  Ascutney, 
the  peak  near  his  father's  farm,  all  became  household  words  in  his  new 

home.  Page  thirty-seven 


He  believed  that  Mt.  Holyoke  seminary  was  the  best  school  in  the 
country  and  would  have  been  glad  to  send  his  daughters  there. 

These  sentences  are  from  a  letter  to  his  mother,  written  during  his 
first  year  in  the  west : 

"Yesterday  we  took  a  long  ride.  As  we  passed  the  state  road,  I  told 
the  children  that  it  lead  to  grandmother's.  Then  they  wanted  to  go  that 
way.  We  saw  some  beautiful  places,  but  not  like  New  England.  I  wish 
you  could  be  here  to  eat  some  of  our  wild  plums,  they  are  very  plenty. 
We  picked  half  a  bushel  in  about  two  hours.  They  grow  in  the  edge  of 
our  groves  in  little  thickets  and  present  a  beautiful  sight.  When  I  think 
of  the  thousands  of  bushels  which  have  grown  and  fallen  to  the  ground 
to  decay,  I  think  the  country  has  too  long  been  the  residence  of  the  savage 
and  the  wild  beast. 

"The  woods  and  the  prairies  abound  with  flowers,  the  soil  is  rich,  the 
water  good.  Melons,  sweet  potatoes  and  peaches  grow  finely  in  this  sec- 
tion. Corn  grows  from  ten  to  twelve  feet  high.  I  have  heard  several  say 

Page  thirty-eight 


they  have  seen  ears  so  high  that  they  could  not  reach  them.  Our  Heaven- 
ly Father  has  greatly  blessed  this  place  in  the  works  of  nature. 

"Well,  Mother,  by  the  kindness  of  brother  Joseph  we  expect  to  see  your 
likeness  soon  and  you  will  have  our  heartfelt  thanks.  What  pleasure  it  would 
afford  us  if  we  could  grasp  your  hand  and  see  a  dear  mother's  face.  As  I 
think  of  our  parting  my  eyes  are  filled  with  tears  but  I  must  not  give  way 
to  these  feelings.  I  feel  that  it  is  for  the  best  that  we  have  come  here,  and 
that  you  are  well  cared  for. 

"Now  Mother,  I  want  you  to  have  some  one  sit  down  in  your  room 
and  write  me  a  letter  giving  me  particulars  about  home." 

His  mother's  age  at  this  time  was  seventy-nine  years. 

Notwithstanding  his  loyal  love  for  his  birth-place,  the  new  life  great- 
ly interested  him  with  its  urgent  demands  and  its  high  hopes.  He  respond- 
ed with  his  whole  soul  to  the  wants  peculiar  to  the  new  community. 

At  a  time  of  panic  from  an  epidemic  of  "spotted  fever",  little  under- 
stood, he  went  fearlessly  from  one  house  of  sickness  to  another. 

Page  thirty-nine 


Strangers  without  funds  were  often  taken  into  his  home.  Once  a  com- 
pany of  emigrants,  bound  for  the  farther  west,  had  camped  in  their 
wagons  near  the  home  during  a  rain-storm,  and  he  brought  them  all  into 
the  house  for  the  night,  kept  them  and  gave  them  a  warm  breakfast.  So 
he  trusted  and  so  he  befriended. 

An  incident  illustrates  his  charity.  A  poor  Irishman,  victim  of  the 
drink  habit,  had  been  "reformed"  during  a  temperance  campaign  and  im- 
mediately took  the  platform  for  the  cause.  One  day  there  came  a  report 
that  he  had  been  tempted  in  a  near-by  town  where  he  was  booked  to  speak 
and  that  he  had  yielded.  That  evening  the  father  left  home  and  was  gone 
over  night,  but  his  children  were  not  told  where  nor  why.  Later  they 
learned  at  school  that  their  father  had  gone  to  find  the  poor  man  and  bring 
him  back  home,  to  save  the  drunkard  and  his  family  as  far  as  possible 
from  disgrace  and  discouragement. 

He  gave  himself  to  the  needs  of  others,  not  as  a  sacrifice  but  as  free- 
ly and  as  joyously  as  to  a  brother.  One  ambition  he  sometimes  expressed 

Page  forty 


—a  hope  that  when  he  could  retire  from  business  cares,  he  might  support 
and  tend  a  reading-room  and  rest-room  for  men  who  had  no  homes.  This 
hope,  ungratified,  writes  his  name  with  those  of  Carnegie  and  Pels,  as  one 
who  would  serve  his  fellow  men. 

Religion  was  the  very  heart  of  his  being.  There  were  no  problems, 
no  dogmas,  in  his  theology.  It  was  a  vital  faith  which  communicated  it- 
self to  others.  His  children  felt  safe  in  the  severest  storm  if  they  could 
stand  close  by  his  side  and  hear  him  say  "I  think  our  Heavenly  Father  will 
take  care  of  us." 

It  was  easy  for  him  to  say  "God  knows  best."  He  believed  it.  But 
once,  those  nearest  to  him  heard  him  say  it  when  they  knew  that  it  was 
very  hard.  Still  he  trusted.  Still  he  could  say,  "God  knows  best." 

His  religion  was  the  culture  element  of  his  mind  and  soul.  He  loved 
to  go  to  church  and  to  attend  prayer  meeting,  he  gloried  in  the  mission- 
ary concert.  He  reverenced  the  ministry  and  all  the  missionaries,  and 

Page  forty-one 


it  used  to  be  said  that  whoever  asked  for  one  of  his  daughters  would  have 
to  be  a  foreign  missionary  or  at  least  a  preacher. 

He  liked  to  read  the  church  papers.  Hymns  were  to  him  the  choic- 
est poetry.  A  company  of  late  serenaders  was  easily  forgiven  for  their 
midnight  disturbance  when  he  was  told  that  they  were  singing  "The  old- 
time  religion." 

Family  worship  was  a  daily  institution,  not  postponed  for  the  sleepy 
evening  hours,  but  held  immediately  after  breakfast.  Every  member  of 
the  circle  read,  in  turn,  two  verses  each.  The  chapter  was  sometimes  di- 
vided if  it  was  long,  but  the  prayer  was  not  shortened,  and  school  girls  with 
a  half-mile  walk  before  them  and  an  early  recitation  occasionally  grew  res- 
tive. 

I  can  hear  now  that  dear  voice  as  it  invoked  a  blessing  upon  each 
one  and  breathed  the  petition  "that  we  all  may  meet  at  last,  an  unbroken 
family  circle,  around  Thy  throne  in  heaven." 

Page  forty-two 


A  high  tribute  was  paid  to  his  sincerity  by  a  fellow-townsman  who 
had  no  reverence  for  preachers  or  for  churches.  He  said,  "When  I  die 
let  the  good  Deacon  offer  a  prayer  at  my  funeral.  That's  all  I  want." 

The  "good  deacon"  served  in  the  great  church  for  many  years,  thirty 
I  think,  and  then  was  made  Deacon  Emeritus  for  life.  It  is  doubtful  if 
any  honor  could  have  pleased  him  more. 

He  had  the  most  perfect  democracy  of  spirit  I  have  ever  known.  He 
received  a  favor  with  the  same  self-respect  with  which  he  granted  one, 
and  was  as  free  from  mock-humility  as  from  a  patronizing  attitude.  He 
knew  no  class  distinctions. 

A  lady  of  fashion  came  among  us.  She  wore  a  seal-skin  coat  and 
plumes  and  rustling  silks.  People  said  she  was  proud  and  came  to  church 
to  show  off  her  costly  clothes.  This  man  met  her  with  the  same  cordial 
hand-shake  and  welcoming  word  he  had  for  every  stranger  at  the  church 
door.  After  a  few  weeks  she  called  at  his  shop  and  asked  him  to  tell 

Page  forty-three 


the  people  that  she  wanted  to  be  one  of  them.  I  do  not  know  how  he 
helped  her,  but  she  became  his  devoted  friend. 

Among  the  many  genuine  and  lasting  friendships  he  enjoyed,  none 
pleased  him  more  than  that  of  the  boys  who  worked  for  him  in  the  shop. 

He  followed  closely  the  Sabbath  observances  of  his  early  training 
but  was  tolerant  of  other  ideas  and  preferences.  If  the  Sunday  mail  was 
brought  into  the  house  his  letters  were  put  on  the  shelf.  He  did  not  look 
at  them  till  Monday  morning.  He  never  took  a  pleasure  walk  on  Sunday 
and  did  not  read  the  secular  papers. 

There  was  no  shade  of  insincerity  or  inconsistency  in  him,  but  be- 
cause I  am  showing  you  a  real  man  and  not  an  ideal,  I  must  confess  that 
in  two  things  he  was  intemperate  and  in  two  things  he  was  weak.  He  had 
an  immoderate  appetite  for  tea,  and  for  pie.  He  lacked  the  power  to  exer- 
cise authority  and  he  never  got  the  best  of  a  bargain. 

A  story  is  told  of  his  first  attempt  to  secure  obedience  by  punish- 
ment. 

Page  forty-four 


A  three-year  old  child  had  disobeyed  him  by  throwing  a  book  upon 
the  floor.  He  picked  it  up  and  told  her  not  to  do  it  again.  She  laughed 
in  his  face  and  did  it  again,  and  again.  He  said  "Must  papa  punish?" 
She  laughed  and  did  it  again.  He  spatted  her  hand.  She  laughed  and 
did  it  again,  and  he — called  for  mother. 

There  is  another  story,  about  the  Jersey  cow  he  milked.  She  was 
a  favorite  with  the  family  and  well-behaved  so  far  as  any  one  knew.  But 
once  when  he  went  away  from  home  for  two  or  three  days,  the  boy  he 
had  engaged  to  care  for  her  reported  trouble.  She  would  not  stand  still. 
Two  or  three  neighbors  who  came  lo  the  rescue  succeeded  no  better.  She 
seemed  incorrigible.  When  the  owner  returned  he  was  surprised  and 
grieved  that  his  well-mannered  cow  had  caused  any  trouble.  The  boy  re- 
solved to  understand  the  case  and  watched  the  process  of  milking  the  next 
evening.  He  declared  that  half  a  dozen  times  the  animal  stepped  away 
from  the  stool  and  the  milker  followed  her  patiently  about  with  a  gentle 

Page  forty-five 


"So  boss!"  and  waited  until  she  felt  like  standing  again.    Thus  did  the 
dumb  beast  tyrannize  over  her  indulgent  master. 

His  humor  was  very  quiet.  He  seldom  laughed  but  often  looked  as 
though  he  had  a  pleasant  thought.  It  would  shine  in  his  face  and  some- 
times ripple  over  into  words.  Few  men  carry  such  an  atmosphere  of  hap- 
piness with  them.  "Oh,  I  find  myself  pretty  good  company,"  he  used  to 
say  in  a  droll  way,  when  the  family  were  sorry  to  leave  him  alone. 

He  had  many  little  ways  of  making  himself  happy,  a  whole  pro- 
gram of  self-entertainment.  It  was  a  kind  of  self-indulgence  as  far  as 
possible  removed  from  selfishness.  Are  not  the  most  delightful  people 
we  know  those  who  enjoy  themselves?  They  make  us  feel  that  life  is 
good. 

He  loved  to  walk  in  his  garden,  or  out  into  the  fields,  or  to  take  a 
little  drive  into  the  country.  "Man  made  the  city,  God  made  the  country" 
was  a  favorite  saying. 

Page  forty-six 


There  was  one  of  his  children  who  didn't  like  to  wash  dishes  nor  to  play 
with  dolls,  but  she  dearly  loved  to  follow  her  father  about ;  with  him  to 
shell  and  pop  the  corn,  dropping  a  few  kernels  for  the  cat;  to  gather  a 
plate  of  big  red  currants  and  sit  in  the  shade  to  eat  them  from  the  stem; 
to  watch  him  pare  an  apple  with  one  long  spiral  paring.  She  loved  to  be 
with  him  at  the  shop  and  help  him  arrange  the  awls  and  brads  and 
punches.  She  loved  with  him  to  feed  the  chickens,  and  to  help  him  plant  the 
garden  seeds.  The  best  treat  of  all  was  to  listen  to  one  of  his  stories. 
There  were  three  favorites:  The  lost  child,  The  delayed  stage-coach,  and 
How  we  went  mackerel  fishing.  True  every  word  and  far  more  fascinat- 
ing than  the  romances  of  Scott  or  Cooper,  as  he  told  them  in  a  sort  of 
monotone  with  no  affectation  of  feeling. 

Happy  child  to  know  the  companionship  of  such  a  father. 

At  home,  at  business,  working  or  resting,  he  was  "a  splendid  man 
to  know." 

Page  forty-seven 


ASCUTNEY 

Mountain,  my  father's  reverent  childhood  eyes 

Dwelt  on  thy  presence,  knowing  God  was  near ; 

And  from  thy  silent  summit  could  he  hear 
The  timeless  teaching  of  the  good  and  wise. 
Prom  youth  to  manhood's  drearier  day,  sunrise 

Found  thee  unchanged  above  his  faith  or  fear ; 

Homesick  and  worn,  thy  memory  still  could  cheer 
His  toil  beneath  the  burning  prairie  skies. 

And  unsought  mound  and  unrecording  stone; 

Triumph  of  death  over  life  that  gave  me  birth : 
0  mountain !  as  I  watch  thee,  sad  and  lone, 

Fainting  from  doubt  and  spiritual  dearth, 
Is  one  whose  praying  mingled  with  mine  own, 

So  watching  me,  beyond  the  bounds  of  earth  ? 


— From  Selden  L.  Whitcomb. 

Page  forty-nine 


MOTHER  AND  GOOD  TIMES  AT  HOME 


Nothing  has  ever  made  a  nation  shine  but  homes. — McLeod. 

Where's  mother  ?  It  was  her  husband's  first  question  when  he  came 
into  the  house,  and  the  family  had  many  a  laugh  because  he  did  not  even 
wait  to  see  that  she  was  sewing  in  her  usual  corner. 

It  was  much  so  with  them  all.  When  mother  was  not  to  be  seen  they 
must  know  where  she  was,  and  things  didn't  seem  just  right  until  she 
came  back.  Mother  was  the  home. 

There  was  much  of  reserve  in  her.  Even  to  near  friends  she  did  not 
speak  much  of  her  own  feelings.  She  never  liked  public  notice. 

Such  a  nature  is  not  to  be  described  in  the  printed  page.  But  her 
life  was  full  of  deeds.  Let  me  try  to  tell  you  something  of  what  she  did. 

Page  fifty-one 


The  capability  of  a  successful  housewife  of  half  a  century  ago  is  a 
marvel. 

To  do  all  that  a  home  required  in  that  time  of  the  home-grown  and 
the  home-made,  to  do  it  with  but  little  outside  help,  to  see  that  a  family 
of  seven  was  well  cared  for,  the  house  sweet  and  orderly,  with  cooking 
and  cleaning  done  up  in  the  morning  and  the  afternoon  for  sewing,  to 
keep  the  head  above  the  clouds  of  worry  and  drudgery,  open  to  large 
thoughts  and  new  light,  all  this  was  task  enough  for  mind  and  heart 
and  hand.  It  took  industry  and  devotion  and  "knack."  This  woman 
did  it  all. 

She  had  a  clear  and  strong  mind.  Her  winters  in  the  New  Eng- 
land academy  had  given  her  a  lasting  interest  in  higher  studies  and  she 
enjoyed  keeping  pace  with  her  daughters  in  much  of  their  school  work. 

A  woman  with  her  bent  of  mind  today  would  write  papers  for  a  club, 
or  shine  in  literary  circles,  or  study  a  profession,  but  she  did  not  spend 
her  time  and  talents  in  that  way. 

Page  fifly-tivo 


Her  rare  good  judgment  was  well-known;  and  her  influence  was 
strong,  but  it  was  not  the  result  of  much  speaking. 

At  one  time  there  was  a  disturbed  state  of  things  in  the  public  school. 
Many  complained  and  demanded  the  removal  of  the  schoolmaster.  The 
board  of  directors  was  in  an  uncertain  state  of  mind  about  it.  This  mother 
said  nothing  until  a  director,  appointed  by  the  board  to  look  into  the  mat- 
ter, came  to  her  and  said  they  wanted  her  opinion.  She  told  him  that  she 
had  decided  to  take  her  girls  quietly  out  of  school  unless  there  was  a 
change.  That  statement,  without  any  discussion  of  the  unworthy  behavior 
of  the  pedagogue,  settled  it. 

I  have  never  known  another  home  so  free  from  the  habit  of  criticism 
or  unkind  comment  as  that  one  was.  The  father's  broad  charity  and 
easy  forgiveness  was  matched  by  the  mother's  strong  sense  of  justice. 
She  would  not  judge  adversely  without  knowing  all.  Criticisms  were  al- 
most forbidden,  scandals  were  not  repeated.  There  was  little  talk  about 
the  mistakes  or  misfortunes  of  people. 

Page  fifty-three 


This  was  one  thing  which  gave  the  home  its  rare  quality  and  its 
strong  influence. 

This  mother  found  time  to  visit  the  schools,  to  attend  a  weekly 
mother's  meeting,  and  at  one  urgent  time  she  met  with  the  Soldiers'  Aid 
society  to  scrape  lint  and  make  comfort-bags  for  the  boys  in  blue.  She 
visited  sick  neighbors  and  sat  up  with  the  dead.  For  twenty  years  her 
hands  prepared  the  communion  bread  and  kept  the  silver  for  the  large 
church.  No  small  task. 

But  her  usual  place  was  at  home.  There  was  her  chosen  realm.  She 
was  its  chief  executive,  its  legislative  and  judicial  department  and  all  the 
cabinet  officers.  She  acted  as  general  health  officer,  relying  upon  a  big 
book  on  hydropathic  treatment. 

We  hear  about  the  variety  of  talents  which  are  needed  to  make  a  west- 
ern college  president  of  the  mayor  of  a  first-class  city.  Their  tasks,  I  be- 
lieve, would  make  light  demands  upon  such  abilities  as  hers. 

To  her  husband  she  was  more  than  help-meet.  She  deferred  to  him  all 
the  more  because  her  decisions  were  naturally  quicker  and  more  positive. 

Page  fifty-four 


The  children  learned  that  hers  would  be  the  deciding  vote, — he  made  it  so 
—but  her  first  answer  to  all  important  requests  was,  "I'll  talk  it  over  with 
your  father." 

In  many  ways  she  was  his  helper.  For  a  long  time  they  went  over 
the  business  of  the  day  together  in  the  evening  and  she  kept  his  books  from 
the  records  he  had  brought  home.  So  she  shared  with  him  the  manage- 
ment of  affairs  which  sometimes  became  perplexing. 

It  was  due  to  her  thrift,  too,  that  there  was  always  a  little  roll  of  milk 
and  egg  money  in  the  house  to  meet  emergencies. 

You  have  seen  that  there  were  tasks  for  the  children.  How  far  this 
was  the  result  of  a  desire  to  forestall  Satan,  how  far  because  the  parents 
believed  in  the  real  value  of  working,  who  knows  ?  There  were  chickens 
to  be  fed,  flower-beds  to  be  weeded,  carpet  rags  to  sew,  knitting  to  do, 
seams  to  be  sewed  over  and  over.  In  some  magical  way  the  tasks  were 
managed  so  that  they  seemed  more  like  play  than  drudgery.  The  "five 

Page  fifty-five 


times  round"  to  be  knitted  was  converted  into  a  race  for  the  end,  as  excit- 
ing as  any  progressive  game.  To  care  for  the  chickens  was  a  treat,  for 
the  caretaker  had  a  percentage  of  the  harvest  and  so  incidentally  learned 
a  little  about  business  methods. 

The  morning  walk  to  the  pasture  was  made  pleasant  by  permission 
to  linger  for  a  bunch  of  violets  or  a  cup  of  wild  strawberries. 

Then  there  was  plenty  of  play  for  its  own  sake,  though  it  was  long 
years  before  teachers  were  reading  books  on  Play  as  a  Factor  in  Education. 

The  lawn  was  never  too  fine  for  a  crowd  of  children  to  play  pomp- 
pomp-pullaway.  While  some  good  folks  were  still  shuddering  at  card 
games,  father  brought  home  the  first  pack  of  "Authors".  Many  long  win- 
ter evenings  they  played  at  parlor  croquet  on  a  fine  board  which  mother 
had  showed  the  carpenter  how  to  make,  and  had  covered  with  cloth  she 
had  dyed  the  right  color. 

Another  winter  sport  was  enjoyed  just  as  much.  Often  on  starry 
nights  the  big  Atlas  of  the  Heavens  was  open  on  the  table  in  the  dining- 

Page  fifty-six 


room,  while  mother  and  the  girls  in  mufflers  and  mittens  ran  in  and  out 
tracing  the  constellations,  Orion  and  his  dogs,  Cassiopaeia,  the  Pleiades, 
the  Sickle,  Ursa  Major  and  the  rest.  Weren't  the  girls  proud  to  find  that 
mother  knew  them  even  better  than  the  school  teacher ! 

When  a  little  unexpected  money  came  to  her  by  bequest,  she  bought 
the  children  an  organ.  There  had  been  music  before.  On  Sunday  even- 
ings in  the  twilight  they  had  sung  hymn  after  hymn,  the  mother  leading. 
"I  love  to  steal  a  while  away,  from  every  cumbering  care"  and  "If  through 
unruffled  seas"  were  always  chosen. 

It  was  at  that  twilight  hour,  too,  that  they  played  "capping  verses." 
Each  verse  must  begin  with  the  last  letter  of  the  one  just  said.  Mother  al- 
ways held  out  till  last,  but  father,  not  good  at  it,  was  likely  to  say  "God 
so  loved  the  world"  for  any  letter  of  the  alphabet. 

Mother  was  good  at  word-squares  and  enigmas  and  rebuses  too,  es- 
pecially of  the  kind  published  in  the  Well-Spring  and  the  Youth's  Com- 
panion, and  often  helped  the  young  folks  over  some  hard  point. 

Page  fifty-seven 


I  can't  begin  to  tell  you  about  all  the  good  times.  There  were  the  sev- 
en birthdays,  and  Christmas  and  Thanksgiving  Day  with  a  family  re- 
union. Three  brothers,  three  sisters  and  two  cousins  with  their  families, 
had  followed  these  pioneers  from  the  east.  So  the  circle  of  relatives  was 
large  and  there  were  dinners  and  picnics  together,  and  in  summer  vaca- 
tions the  girls  spent  a  grand  week  with  the  uncles  on  the  farms. 

Didn't  the  children  of  the  Old  Home  have  good-times! 

The  girls  and  boys  I  know  today  have  bicycles  and  roller  skates  and 
kodaks,  they  go  to  the  theater  and  to  moving  picture  shows  and  dancing 
classes,  but  I  can't  believe  that  their  cup  of  joy  is  fuller  or  sweeter  than 
that  of  the  old-time  children. 

It  seemed  to  be  the  mother's  chosen  work  to  make  the  home  happy, 
to  see  that  her  dear  ones  missed  no  good  thing.  For  that  she  spent  herself. 
Who  can  recall  a  single  selfish  act? 

For  long  I  supposed  that  all  homes  were  like  this  one,  all  parents  as 
perfect,  all  children  as  happy.  Now  I  see  that  it  was  because  a  father 

Page  fifty-eight 


radiated  his  own  sunny  nature,  because  a  self-giving  mother  planned  it  so, 
because  together  they  worked  for  it,  that  the  children  of  that  home  found 
their  daily  path  bright  with  flowers  and  their  skies  star-strewn. 


Page  fifty-nine 


A  PERFECT  DAY  ON  THE  PRAIRIE 


There  is  no  road  to  happiness. 

The   road   is   happiness.  — Newman. 

Does  some  one  of  you  shudder  at  that  word  prairie  ?  There  are  peo- 
ple to  whom  it  suggests  only  a  dreary  expanse  swept  by  fierce  winds  and 
threatened  by  racing  flames. 

The  prairies  of  Iowa  even  in  their  virgin  state  were  not  to  be  con- 
fused with  the  starved  desolation  of  the  plains,  nor  with  the  parched  and 
thirsty  stretches  of  the  desert.  They  were  covered  with  long  grasses  and 
with  blossoms  of  almost  countless  variety,  and  their  fertile  acres  only 
needed  the  touch  of  the  plow  to  bestow  upon  the  farmer  who  managed 
well,  a  rich  reward. 

Their  billows  were  cut  by  frequent  creeks  languidly  creeping  toward 
the  little  rivers  which  help  to  swell  the  mighty  Mississippi,  and  the 
streams  were  often  bordered  by  a  strip  of  woodland.  «• 

Page  sixty-one 


The  eye  could  reach  so  far  that  to  some  the  very  limitlessness  was 
depressing,  but  I  knew  one  woman  who  had  long  been  cramped  in  wall 
and  purse  who  was  far  from  depressed  by  it.  She  found  satisfaction 
and  relaxation  in  this  unbounded  area.  "It  is  so  good,"  she  said,  "to  find 
that  there  is  enough  of  something." 

To  the  camera  the  unimproved  prairie  shows  a  monotonous  picture, 
but  there  are  beautiful  pictures  which  the  camera  does  not  see.  You  will 
never  think  of  monotony  again  if  you  will  spend  a  single  summer's  day 
on  an  Iowa  farm  with  open  eyes, — if  you  have  once  seen  the  sun  convert 
the  cool  gray  mists  of  the  night  into  fire  opals,  have  watched  the  palpi- 
tating air  at  noontime  as  it  quivers  visibly  over  the  fields,  the  shadows  of 
the  low  clouds  go  skidding  over  the  earth,  the  long  grasses  bend  before 
the  rising  breeze,  revealing  the  inimitable  shades  of  their  green  and  pur- 
ple and  yellow  stems,  the  blackness  of  the  coming  storm  unroll  itself  upon 

the  horizon  until  sky  and  earth  are  one. 

• 

Page  sixly-tivo 


It  does  not  need  the  cycle  of  the  seasons  to  reveal  variety  of  color 
and  mood.  A  day  is  enough. 

Even  the  desert  has  its  compelling  charm,  as  Mary  Austin  shows  us 
in  her  "Land  of  Little  Rain."  What  wonder  that  when  the  prairie-born 
child  comes  home  from  mountain  or  from  sea  the  soul  leaps  in  response 
to  the  familiar  scenes  and  voices. 

One  of  the  chief  holidays  of  the  family  was  the  summer  drive  to  C. 
Long  it  was  talked  of  and  planned  for.  Father  must  find  a  day  when  he 
could  leave  his  business.  The  child  -en's  school  was  never  to  be  inter- 
rupted. The  mud  must  be  well  dr'c'd  up  after  the' last  rain.  Most  diffi- 
cult of  all,  a  perfect  day  must  be  found,  not  too  hot,  not  too  windy,  with 
no  likelihood  of  rain  or  sudden  storm.  Delightfully  perplexing  problems, 
sometimes  unsolved  for  weeks,  and  never  to  be  settled  beyond  reconsider- 
ation until  the  last  hour.  But  when  the  carriage  was  really  at  the  door, 
and  all  were  aboard  and  they  were  actually  off,  what  joys  were  anticipated. 
No,  it  was  better  than  that.  Already  every  breath  was  joy. 

Page  sixty-three 


Oh  for  the  pen  of  a  Stevenson  to  describe  that  day. 

They  made  an  early  start,  for  there  were  many  miles  to  travel  and 
visiting  to  do,  and  the  horses  must  rest  during  the  mid-day  heat.  You 
might  almost  have  thought  the  drive  was  for  the  benefit  of  the  horses,  to 
watch  the  driver's  care  of  them.  They  were  watered,  in  moderation,  at 
every  stream,  and  at  the  top  of  the  long  hill  the  tugs  were  shortened  and 
at  its  foot  the  check-line  was  dropped  for  an  easier  climb. 

If  you  have  not  driven  over  these  prairies  you  may  not  know  that 
the  road  leads  down  hill  first,  crosses  the  little  stream  and  then  climbs 
back  to  the  general  level.  As  a  visitor  from  the  mountains  once  said, 
"Your  Iowa  valleys  make  your  little  hills.  Our  mountains  make  the 
valleys." 

Those  little  hills  loomed  up  high  and  threatening  before  the  young 
travelers,  even  when  father  held  the  lines.  But  again  the  miracle  was 
wrought  by  which  life's  terrors  dwindle  and  disappear  before  a  courageous 
approach,  and  the  carriage  was  again  on  the  safe  level. 

Page  sixty-four 


More  than  once  father  said,  as  he  looked  up  at  the  clear  sky,  "How 
fortunate  we  are  to  have  a  perfect  day."  Hadn't  he  a  wise  way  of  woo- 
ing fortune ! 

Once  as  they  passed  a  farmer  on  his  load,  father's  greeting  was  so 
brotherly  that  some  one  was  sure  he  knew  the  man  this  time,  but  no,  it 
was  only  the  "brother-man"  he  was  greeting. 

The  air  was  sweet  with  the  twittering  of  birds.  They  heard  a  bob- 
white  close  by  the  roadside.  On  the  fence  sat  a  dickcissel  with  his  black 
and  orange  waistcoat,  and,  alas,  on  a  barb  of  the  fence  wire  hung  the  vic- 
tim of  a  butcher  bird.  They  stopped  to  gather  a  handful  of  spotted  field- 
lilies.  Would  the  water-lilies  be  out  in  the  creek!  It  was  possible,  for 
this  was  late  June.  Do  you  know  those  exquisite  beauties?  No  where  else 
does  nature  bestow  such  delicate  perfection  as  in  their  spotless  cups,  half 
concealing  the  long  golden  stamens.  The  magnolia  bloom  and  the  calla  are 
like  them  in  purity  and  magnificent  size,  but  lack  the  grace  and  modesty  and 
dewy  freshness  of  the  lily  in  its  shaded  pool. 

Page  sixty-five 


Bear  Creek  bridge  was  an  epoch.  Here  were  the  woods  and  mosses 
and  ferns  and  plum  blossoms,  here  a  red-headed  woodpecker  flashed  behind 
a  hickory  tree,  and  from  here, — it  was  only  one  mile  more  to  the  nearest 
uncle's. 

So  the  day  passed,  a  panorama  of  delights  capped  by  the  welcome  of 
aunts  and  uncles  and  cousins,  and  the  bountiful  repast  and  sweet  fellow- 
ship. 

Ah!  that  was  a  joy-ride.  No  wild  automobile  spin  can  be  compared 
to  it.  No  tourist  over  the  Corniche  Road  can  feel  a  purer  satisfaction. 
Father's  pleasure  at  being  in  the  open  shone  on  his  face  and  communi- 
cated itself  to  all  the  family.  Mother's  calm  content  and  the  unrestrained 
enthusiasm  of  the  children  united  with  the  cloudless  sky  to  make  a  day 
marked  in  memory  with  a  star,  a  perfect  day. 


Page  sixty-six 


HARD  TIMES 


Often  for  each  other  flows 
The  sympathizing  tear. — Faivcett. 

Life  on  the  frontier  is  not  all  poetry.  These  pioneers  on  the  prairie 
had  their  full  share  of  hardship  and  privation. 

They  had  left  the  East  expecting  to  reach  their  destined  home  by  the 
railway.  They  found  it  more  than  a  hundred  miles  beyond  the  terminus, 
and  finished  their  journey  under  the  canvas  cover  of  the  prairie-schooner 
or  by  the  tiresome  stage-coach.  They  waited  for  the  delayed  road  to 
overtake  them, — waited  twelve  long  years. 

Those  who  have  never  lived  beyond  the  railway  can  not  realize  what 
it  means  to  be  dependent  upon  an  uncertain  stage-service,  subject  to  de- 
lays from  drifted  roads  in  winter  and  from  washed-out  roads  and  washed- 
out  bridges  in  summer. 

Page  sixty-seven 


Instead  of  frequent  news  from  the  old  home  and  regular  supplies  from 
the  great  centers,  are  delayed  or  lost  mails  and  interrupted  supplies,  and 
heavy  freight  charges  which  convert  many  comforts  into  luxuries.  It  is 
enough  to  make  strong  hearts  weaken  and  grow  homesick,  and  it  is  upon 
the  women  that  the  burdens  of  pioneer  life  press  most  heavily. 

Men  and  women  who  endure  this  life  learn  to  lean  upon  their  own 
abilities.  They  grow  resourceful.  They  learn,  too,  to  lean  upon  each  other 
and  to  share.  They  co-operate. 

Not  a  tree  was  in  sight  when  our  new-comers  began  to  build  their 
homes,  for  the  nearest  grove,  though  not  far  away,  bordered  the  stream 
and  was  wholly  below  the  line  of  vision. 

The  winds  had  an  unbroken  sweep  for  miles  and  brought  dust  or  cold 
and  snow  with  a  violence  the  well-sheltered  residents  of  today  can  scarce- 
ly conceive  of. 

And  mud!  All  who  know  the  fertility  of  those  fields  can  understand 
how  impassable  the  roads  and  walks  often  became.  To  be  "mired"  or 

Page  sixty-eight 


"sloughed"  after  the  spring  thaw  was  a  common  experience.  The  main 
street  was  kept  in  shape  for  foot-passengers  by  a  string  of  planks  where 
they  were  needed  most.  But  planks  were  costly.  Sometimes  on  Saturday 
afternoons,  during  the  muddy  season,  a  load  or  more  of  straw  was  pitched 
off  near  the  church  and  the  faithful  ones  might  be  seen  with  forks  distrib- 
uting it.  So  these  good  people  answered  their  own  prayer  that  their  feet 
might  be  kept  in  slippery  places. 

In  the  very  early  years  of  the  town  a  violent  storm  occurred.  It  was 
long  referred  to  as  "The  Tornado",  and  houses  showed  the  dint  of  the  hail- 
stones for  years. 

When  the  Old  Home  was  shaken  enough  to  ring  the  front  door-bell, 
which  was  suspended  by  a  long  wire,  the  wind  was  called  "high".  Twice 
the  Home  was  the  victim,  or  the  target,  of  the  elements.  The  house  had 
been  hastened  into  a  state  fit  for  occupancy  and  the  family  had  moved  in 
to  leave  room  for  others  in  the  only  hotel.  The  father  had  gone  to  a  saw- 
mill for  lumber  for  partition  walls.  The  mother  with  the  two  little  girls 

Page  sixty-nine 


was  alone  when  a  fierce  storm  arose  in  the  blackness  of  the  night.  She  felt 
the  danger  and,  guided  by  a  swift  inspiration  or  by  a  kindly  providence, 
sought  safety,  not  in  the  strong  deep  cellar,  but  out  in  the  open,  screened 
from  the  storm  only  by  the  well  curb.  The  house  was  torn  to  pieces,  no 
corner  in  the  cellar  would  have  been  a  safe  haven,  but  the  three  crouched 
down  by  the  well  curb  were  unharmed. 

A  few  years  later  during  a  terrible  thunder  storm  a  heavy  crash 
alarmed  the  parents  sleeping  below.  The  father  hurried  upstairs  to  the 
children.  He  saw  a  blinding  flash  within  the  walls,  and  sparks  snapping 
through  the  air.  For  a  moment  he  thought  the  house  was  struck.  What 
had  really  occurred  was  learned  months  after,  when  workmen  repairing 
the  chimney  found  that  the  end  of  the  lightning-rod  had  been  melted.  It 
had  been  an  imperfect  medium  but  still  the  salvation  of  the  house. 

Thunder-storms  were  frequent  and  fire  from  lightning  sparks  was  a 
constant  fear. 

Page  seventy 


There  is  a  majesty  in  the  big  storm,  in  the  power  of  the  elements. 
Hours  of  intense  heat  are  followed  by  a  cool  breath,  by  the  shade  of  gath- 
ering clouds,  and  by  a  distant  growl.  Then  comes  a  rustle  in  the  trembling 
poplars  and  a  welcome  patter  on  the  leaves.  Suddenly  great  tree-tops  sway, 
the  rain  dashes  in  white  sheets  and  the  crash  and  burst  are  near  at  hand. 

But  these  are  not  the  experiences  which  people  choose.  I  think  the 
pioneers  in  Iowa  would  count  these  storms  among  their  trials. 

I  shall  not  attempt  to  tell  you  of  the  cyclone  much  later,  but  already 
nearly  twenty  years  ago,  when  out  of  a  black  night  in  June  came  chaos  and 
death.  Forty  were  killed,  a  hundred  more  were  injured,  many  homes  and 
the  loved  college  buildings  were  in  ruins.  Ask  one  who  lived  through  that 
night  of  terror  to  tell  you  the  story,  if  you  have  heart  for  it. 


Page  seventy-one 


When  the  country's  life  was  threatened  and  President  Lincoln  called 
for  volunteers,  there  came  a  sad  day  to  the  Old  Home.  A  cloud  seemed 
to  rest  over  everything.  All  the  family,  an  uncle  and  aunt  and  a  few 
neighbors  sat  in  the  parlor  though  it  was  still  forenoon. 

Only  the  father  was  busy  and  one  child  followed  him  about.  "Papa," 
the  child  asked,  "Why  is  everybody  crying  but  you  and  me  ?"  She  was 
told  that  it  was  because  Uncle  Edward  was  going  to  the  war.  Didn't  they 
want  him  to  go?  Yes,  but  they  were  sad  because  he  might  never  come 
back. 

Two  brothers,  the  "uncles",  were  farming  their  new  land  near  to- 
gether. One  was  already  married.  The  other  was  soon  to  go  back  to  Ver- 
mont for  his  promised  bride.  But  they  thought  one  of  the  two,  both  strong 
and  young  and  loyal,  ought  to  answer  the  country's  call. 

Uncle  Edward  could  go  best.  A  letter  had  come  from  the  girl  in  Ver- 
mont telling  him  to  do  his  duty.  She  would  do  her  part.  And  so  it  was 
decided. 

Page  seventy-two 


And  did  he  come  back  ? 

Once  on  furlough  he  crawled  home,  weak  from  fever,  for  his  sister  to 
nurse  him  back  to  strength.  But  he  returned  too  soon,  and  after  months  of 
exposure  and  weakness  and  neglect,  was  given  a  discharge,  a  sick  and 
broken  man. 

He  had  given,  not  life,  but  his  best  strength  and  health  to  his  country. 
The  gift  was  not  his  alone,  for  after  a  few  years  he  died,  leaving  the  young 
widow  to  fight  life's  battle  for  herself  and  their  little  ones. 

What  meaning  such  facts  give  to  the  words  of  the  great  speech,  "See 
to  it  that  these  dead  shall  not  have  died  in  vain !"  What  fellowship  to  all 
who  mourn  their  patriot  dead! 

So  out  of  the  dread  and  the  storm  and  the  loss  was  born  that  oneness 
which  is  the  best  part  of  any  community  life. 

Sorrow  is  better  than  a  kindergarten  game  to  teach  "the  magic  of 
together."  A  common  joy  may  do  something  to  unite  hearts,  but  no  bonds 
are  so  strong  as  those  which  are  welded  by  the  fires  of  a  common  suf- 
fering. page  seventy-three 


SOME  OTHER  PEOPLE 


Culture  and  character  in  active  relation  to  social  life.    That  is  one  definition  of  the  Grinnell  spirit. 

— Main. 

Two  institutions,  church  and  college,  dominated  the  town  and  to  a 
great  degree  determined  the  trend  of  its  development.  Several  church 
organizations  were  maintained  and  have  long  ago  grown  to  strength,  but 
in  the  early  years  it  was  said  to  be  lonely  for  a  man  who  was  not  a  Con- 
gregationalist  and  a  republican. 

Often  the  pulpit  was  supplied  by  one  of  the  professors,  for  they  had 
the  habit  of  being  ministers.  This  New  England  town  of  the  west,  this 
new  Oberlin,  as  it  was  called,  attracted  many  other  clergymen  retired  from 
pastoral  work.  Soon  the  town  became  noted  for  its  great  number  of 
preachers.  When  the  population  was  two  thousand  there  were  twenty  of 
them. 

Page  seventy-five 


It  was  due  in  part  to  this  fact,  that  moral  and  religious  interests  were 
foremost.  The  very  founder  of  the  colony  was  a  Congregational  min- 
ister, and  though  he  became  a  railway  official  and  a  United  States  con- 
gressman, his  deepest  interest  was  always  that  the  town,  his  namesake, 
should  be  a  model  in  matters  social  and  religious. 

He  was  a  staunch  prohibitionist  and  it  was  his  plan  that  every  deed 
to  town  property  should  be  worded  so  that  title  would  be  forfeited  by  a 
purchaser  who  allowed  it  to  be  used  for  saloon  purposes.  A  few  deeds  read 
so.  To  this  day  no  sale  of  liquors  has  ever  been  allowed  within  the  city 
limits  except  for  medicinal  uses.  "Saints'  Rest"  was  a  name  given  to  the 
place,  in  scorn  or  praise  according  to  the  standards  of  the  speaker. 

It  may  be  that  ideas  and  habits  were  Puritan-like.  Certainly  those 
men  brought  with  them  the  best  New  England  standards,  the  highest 
type  of  character.  They  were  men  of  scholarly  tastes.  They  brought  li- 
braries and  pictures  such  as  are  not  often  found  in  a  village  on  the  fron- 
tier. They  brought  rich  personal  experiences,  and  some  of  them  a  knowl- 

Page  teventy-stx 


edge  of  other  shores.  Their  courteous  manners  gave  a  dignity  and  grace 
to  society.  Their  high  silk  hats  and  long  black  coats  were  an  ornament  to 
the  streets. 

How  well  they  looked  after  the  young  folks. 

One  of  them,  who  was  a  stickler  for  more  thorough  religious  train- 
ing of  the  child,  offered  to  listen  once  a  week  to  all  the  boys  and  girls  who 
would  learn  the  Westminster  Catechism.  Quite  a  number  began  with 
"the  chief  end  of  man,"  but  I  fear  not  one  got  to  the  end  of  the  catechism. 

Another  friend  of  the  children,  widely  know  by  the  beautiful  harmony 
"Stockwell"  found  in  many  hymn  books,  promised  to  give  a  Bible  to 
every  Sunday  School  pupil  who  would  memorize  the  lesson  text  each  week, 
about  fifteen  verses,  for  a  whole  year.  More  than  fifty  received  the  prize. 

If  you  know  what  an  old-fashioned  Thursday-night  prayer  meeting 
was,  with  its  testimonies  and  reminiscences  and  prayers,  you  will  natur- 
ally wonder  how  long  theirs  lasted.  Of  course  the  retired  ministers  and 
the  college  professors  attended  in  goodly  numbers.  There  were  few  long 

Page  seventy-seven 


pauses.  Not  often  did  the  leader  consulting  his  watch  announce,  "We 
have  a  few  minutes  more,  brethren."  More  often  the  younger  element 
grew  restless  because  the  hour  was  over-past.  This  was  a  time  when  the 
foundations  of  the  faith  were  threatened  and  its  pillars  attacked  and 
defenders  were  many  and  fearless. 

For  one  I  confess  to  remembering  better  how  they  spoke  than  what 
they  said.  It  was  so  interesting  to  follow  their  various  tones,  mellow  or 
strident,  their  inflections  and  gestures  and  sonorous  periods. 

The  deacons,  too,  had  their  innings.  One  of  them  stood  persistently 
for  the  postulate  that  the  Sunday  School  is  the  child  of  the  church.  Year 
after  year  he  pointed  out  that  as  no  father  takes  his  children's  pennies 
to  pay  their  board,  no  church  should  allow  the  Sunday  School  collections 
to  be  used  for  the  support  of  the  school.  Every  cent  the  children  bring 
should  be  used  for  foreign  missions.  This  deacon  used  to  offer  prayer 
regularly.  I  liked  his  voice  and  I  liked  the  grand  roll  of  these  phrases, 

Page  seventy-eight 


"Grant  that  we  may  not  forever  hang  like  dead  weights  on  the  wheels  of 
the  car  of  Thy  salvation." 

Once  this  safe  and  sober  man  caused  laughter  in  prayer  meeting.  He 
told  of  an  occurrence  when  he  was  in  the  "calaboose",  changed  the  word 
quickly  to  "caboose",  but  it  was  too  late.  The  association  of  ideas  was  too 
incongruous  to  be  forgotten. 

Among  the  dear  old  ladies  who  attended  was  the  original  one  who  "en- 
joyed very  poor  health"  and  that  was  part  of  her  testimony. 

Let  me  introduce  you  to  one  of  the  first  pastors.  He  was  called  a 
giant  among  preachers  and  treated  his  texts  exegetically  and  lengthwise. 

With  what  force  he  defended  the  existence  of  the  evil  one.  "I  tell  you 
if  there  is  a  God  there  is  a  devil !"  He  was  a  picture  of  zeal,  growing 
redder  and  redder  in  the  face  as  he  grew  more  emphatic. 

One  Sunday,  he  startled  those  in  his  audience  who  were  not  sleeping, 
with  this  anti-climax :  "I  tell  you  this  is  true.  Jesus  Christ  says  so.  Paul 
says  so.  And  I  say  so." 

Page  seventy-nine 


It  was  his  concluding  sentence  and  high  time  to  stop.  The  old  folks 
were  beginning  to  nod  and  the  younger  ones  were  watching  the  minute- 
hand  to  see  if  he  would  preach  until  fifteen  or  twenty  or  thirty  minutes 
past  twelve. 

This  doctor  gave  his  people  a  surprise  one  summer.  His  hair  was 
very  black,  a  striking  frame  for  his  ruddy  face.  So  it  was  when  he  left  for 
his  vacation.  He  returned  with  hair  snowy  white.  What  had  changed 
it  ?  Had  he  met  with  sudden  grief  ? 

His  daughter  told  her  friends  that  papa  had  long  used  a  "prepara- 
tion" for  his  hair  and  when  he  found  that  it  was  causing  headaches  he 
left  it  off  and  the  color  all  at  once  changed. 

How  many  men  and  women  one  may  recall  who  contributed  in  a  de- 
finite way  to  make  up  the  atmosphere  of  that  place.  One  citizen  for  years 
stood  as  an  example  of  public-spiritedness.  He  built  himself  into  the  life 
of  the  college  by  a  gift  of  his  own  home  grounds  and  by  a  larger  gift  of 
service  as  guardian  of  the  treasury  and  library  and  other  interests. 

Page  eighty 


Many  hearts  recall  gratefully  a  man  who  put  small  emphasis  upon 
the  harsher  tenets  of  the  creed.  He  was  Sunday  School  Superintendent 
when  there  was  complaint  that  some  of  the  younger  teachers  were  substi- 
tuting a  modern  health  food  for  the  pure  bread  of  the  word.  The  teachers, 
earnest  and  conscientious,  felt  discouraged  by  the  wrangle  and  were  ready 
to  resign.  How  good  was  his  strong  assurance  of  confidence  and  support, 
and  his  words,  "Teach  what  you  think  will  be  good  for  your  class.  Go 
ahead." 

The  towns-people  were  conservative  about  some  things,  in  their  views 
of  divorce  for  instance.  The  very  word  was  spoken  in  a  lowered  voice  as 
not  fit  for  the  level  of  ordinary  themes.  A  divorced  woman  came  among 
them.  She  wished  to  teach  a  private  school  for  girls  but  she  met  opposi- 
tion. The  women  hesitated  to  encourage  her.  Would  it  be  safe  ?  Strangely 
enough  it  was  the  mother  in  the  Old  Home  who  settled  it.  For  after 
hearing  the  teacher's  life  story  from  her  own  lips,  she  said,  "She  is  a 

Page  eighty-one 


good  woman.  I'm  not  afraid  that  she  will  do  my  girls  any  harm."  And 
the  school  was  opened. 

It  is  a  little  strange  to  find  progressive  cities  today  questioning  the 
fitness  of  women  to  serve  on  a  board  of  public  education.  Thirty  years 
ago  in  that  conservative  community  two  women  were  on  the  board,  and 
they  were  wise  and  efficient. 

There  were  other  conspicuous  departures  from  the  traditional, — a  few 
early  followers  of  Amelia  Bloomer's  striking  costume,  a  man  milliner,  the 
first  woman  notary  in  the  State,  a  case  of  cremation  after  death.  But 
these  departures,  it  will  be  found  on  examination,  were  never  for  sensa- 
tion's sake.  There  is  a  law  which  wise  people  and  wise  communities  fol- 
low in  adjusting  the  balance  between  fearless  and  independent  action  on 
the  one  hand,  and  respect  for  established  customs  on  the  other. 


Page  eighty-two 


Many  of  the  questions  which  agitate  educators  of  the  present  time 
had  to  be  met  and  solved  by  the  young  college  on  the  prairie:  The  ques- 
tion of  co-education,  best  methods  of  government,  vocational  training, 
elective  courses,  proper  place  of  college  athletics  and  others.  Co-education 
was  adopted  at  the  beginning.  This  school  didn't  wait,  as  Beloit  did,  for 
a  special  dispensation  of  nature.  As  far  back  as  any  one  can  remember, 
the  winding  path  which  led  to  the  west  stile  was  wide  enough  for  two,  a 
proper  co-educational  trail.  When  a  two-board  walk  appeared,  the  planks 
were  separated  by  a  discreet  distance. 

But  what  a  deal  of  trouble  the  faculty  did  make  the  students,  or  the 
students  made  the  faculty,  over  the  attempted  enforcement  of  rule  number 
thirteen,  a  rule  which  limited  the  rights  of  young  gentlemen  to  call  upon 
the  young  ladies,  walk  with  them  or  talk  with  them  without  permission 
of  the  lady  principal. 

Really  it  is  about  time  for  some  one  to  collect  statistics  regarding 
the  success  of  the  many  marriages  which  have  resulted  from  class-room 

Page  eighty-three 


acquaintance.  I  don't  now  recall  one  which  has  proved  a  conspicuous 
failure. 

The  matter  of  electives  had  not  reached  its  present  stage.  At  first, 
choice  lay  between  a  classical,  a  scientific  and  a  literary  course,  commonly 
called  the  two  gentlemen's  courses  and  the  ladies'  course. 

The  few  scattering  women  who  chose  to  study  Greek,  about  half  a 
dozen  in  all  before  '77,  were  counted  a  bit  strong-minded.  One  young 
man  who  elected  the  ladies'  course  was  dissuaded.  It  didn't  seem  proper. 

Records  show  that  the  institution  has  rung  the  changes  in  forms  of 
government,  but  the  basis  was  laid  in  government  by  Rules,  not  student 
rule  or  self-rule  but  Rules  with  a  capital  letter.  They  were  many  and 
chiefly  prohibitive,  but  so  is  the  Mosaic  code. 

Students  seemed  to  catch  the  spirit  of  greater  liberty  earlier  than  the 
governing  body  did.  It  was  a  little  hard  to  feel  that  a  game  of  cards  or  a 
smoke  was  iniquitous  when  the  fact  was  patent  that  certain  young  pro- 
fessors might  be  traced  in  their  evening  strolls  by  the  light  of  their  cigars. 

Page  eighty-four 


Circus  attendance  was  not  considered  necessary  to  one's  development 
in  those  days.  As  often  as  the  bill-boards  announced  the  approach  of  one, 
the  President  gave  a  chapel  talk  on  their  degrading  and  pernicious  influ- 
ence. He  ended  by  saying  that  no  student  must  so  far  forget  himself  and 
the  good  name  of  the  college  as  to  be  seen  at  the  circus.  Few  went. 
Fewer  were  found  out.  One  interesting  case  a  certain  class  will  never 
forget.  The  self-reporting  system  was  on  trial.  Each  student  was  asked 
what  rules  he  had  broken  during  the  week  and  how  many  times.  He 
was  given  a  chance  to  state  extenuating  circumstances  and  then  received 
demerits  according  to  the  schedule. 

It  was  the  turn  of  a  student  credited  with  liberal  ideas  and  a  high 
sense  of  honor.  He  had  reported  breaking  study  hours  a  few  times,  had 
seen  a  young  lady  home  occasionally,  (she  needed  an  escort)  and, — "I 
believe  that's  about  all." 

"Is  that  all?"  asked  the  reporting  officer  with  a  falling  inflection. 
"Oh,  I  went  to  the  circus"  the  student  added,  in  an  off-hand  way  as  if 

Page  eighty-five 


the  incident  were  hardly  worth  mentioning.  The  confession  of  a  crime 
could  scarcely  have  caused  more  excitement  among  his  classmates.  What 
would  the  faculty  do  about  it?  The  case  was  without  precedent.  Stu- 
dents had  attended  the  circus,  of  course,  but  it  was  thought  no  one  had 
ever  reported  it,  certainly  not  with  that  audacious  unconcern  of  manner. 

Well,  he  survived,  was  graduated  cum  honore,  and  today  sits  as 
His  Honor,  Judge  of  the  Superior  Court  in  a  southern  city. 

It  was  generally  understood  that  the  origin  of  the  extreme  prohib- 
itory government  was  in  the  spirit  of  the  grand  old  man  who  was  presi- 
dent. His  antagonism  against  dancing,  cards,  theatrical  performances, 
college  athletics,  late  hours,  fraternities  and  all  secret  societies  was  in- 
tense. They  were  evil  and  he  feared  them  as  he  feared  the  theory  of 
evolution. 

Naturally  his  ideas  were  sometimes  challenged.  Students  had  other 
notions.  The  young  professors  who  came  to  teach  mathematics  and  chem- 

Page  eighty -six 


istry  had  other  notions.  The  friction  cost  the  college  some  fine  teachers. 
Others  left  because  their  conspicuous  merit  won  them  larger  salaries  in 
stronger  institutions.  So  Bowdoin,  Dartmouth,  Sheffield  Scientific  and 
State  universities  stole  some  brilliant  teachers  from  this  prairie  college. 

What  a  procession  of  scholars  and  gentlemen  they  were  who  sat 
in  the  faculty  row  at  morning  chapel!  They  were  men  of  "light  and 
leading." 

The  masterful  president  swayed  the  scepter  for  nineteen  years.  Who 
that  had  seen  him  once  ever  forgot  that  commanding  presence.  His 
voice  was  strong  and  vibrant,  eloquent  in  speech,  and  in  song  it  sounded 
above  a  full  chorus  so  that  it  lead,  whether  it  fell  behind  the  notes  or  was 
ahead  of  them.  It  was  good  to  hear  him  pour  forth  his  tones,  rare  in 
quality  and  quantity,  in  his  favorite  chapel  hymn,  "How  shall  the  young 
secure  their  hearts?"  to  the  tune  Federal  Street,  and  at  the  senior  class 
parties  in  his  home  when  he  sang  Marc  Antony's  dying  song: — 

I   am   dying,   Egypt,   dying. 

Ebbs  the  crimson  life-blood  fast 

Page  eighty-seven 


His  was  a  personality  never  to  be  over-shadowed  nor  safely  to  be  op- 
posed. His  face  suggested  power,  authority,  the  rule  of  the  autocrat.  If 
the  students  did  not  love  him,  they  admired  his  strong  nature  and  brilliant 
talents. 

There  was  another  of  the  first  group,  one  whose  chiselled  features 
seemed  well-fitted  to  scholar's  cap  and  gown.  He  talked  of  early  Greece 
and  Rome  as  though  he  had  lived  among  the  ancients,  and  by  his  touch 
he  vivified  the  old  records.  He  was  himself  a  classic.  For  a  few  years 
he  was  missing  from  the  college  platform,  a  university  had  borrowed  him, 
but  he  was  welcomed  back  to  be  honored  and  cherished  until  today. 

There  was  a  gentleman  of  the  "fine  old  Yankee  school"  who  didn't 
stay  long,  perhaps  he  didn't  quite  hit  it  off  with  the  president,  but  there 
are  students  who  are  grateful  today  for  the  memory  of  his  gracious  man- 
ner and  poetic  speech.  They  were  as  lovely  as  the  flowers  of  English 
literature  he  disclosed. 

Page  eighty-eight 


Later  a  Latin  teacher,  whose  rich  and  kindly  nature  endeared  him  to 
the  very  students  who  laughed  at  his  sentences  because  they  were  formal 
and  complex  and  illustrated  the  construction  of  the  oratio  obliqua  even  to 
the  subordinate  clauses. 

One  of  the  lady  principals  was  a  charming  woman  of  French  descent 
and  graces,  a  beautiful  spirit  and  the  idol  of  a  good  many  young  hearts. 
Another  had  been  abroad  three  times  and  could  tell  how  she  felt  when 
she  stood  before  the  Sistine  Madonna! 

Best  loved  of  all,  perhaps,  was  one  who  lead  his  classes  in  study  of 
the  heavenly  spaces,  while  to  hundreds  of  students  he  was  better  than  a 
teacher,  an  affectionate  and  interested  friend. 

The  students  did  not  lack  for  models  of  cultured  character  and 
mind.  Worthy  men  and  beautiful  women  were  always  before  them. 

One  question  now  discussed  from  Harvard  to  Berkeley  did  not  arise 
in  the  days  we  are  telling  of, — the  question  of  the  chief  aim  of  college 
life. 

Page  eighty-nine 


Those  students  knew  that  they  were  there  chiefly  to  learn.  They  were 
expected  first  and  last  to  study.  College  honors  were  given  for  real  work. 

Do  you  ever  wonder  with  a  recent  writer  (See  Gayley's  Idols,  chap- 
ter two)  whether  with  the  pursuit  of  so  many  absorbing  activities,  such  as 
"class  meetings,  business  meetings,  committee  meetings,  editorial  meet- 
ings, football  rallies,  baseball  rallies,  vicarious  athletics  on  the  bleachers, 
garrulous  athletics  in  the  dining  room,  rehearsals  of  the  glee  club  and 
mandolin  club,  rehearsals  for  dramatics,  dances  and  banquets,  fraternity 
suppers,  running  about  for  items  for  ephemeral  papers,  soliciting  adver- 
tisements, soliciting  subscriptions,  college  politics,  canvassing  for  votes, 
hours  at  sorority  houses  for  sentiment",  and  more,  there  is  enough  time 
left  for  the  one  legitimate  college  activity,  study? 

We  have  seen  that  the  young  folks  of  our  town  did  not  lack  the  in- 
fluence of  choice  and  classic  models.  There  were  other  influences  in  the 
so-called  "special  privileges,"  the  lectures  and  musical  treats,  secured  some- 
times for  the  benefit  of  a  fund  but  oftener  for  the  good  of  the  community. 

Page  ninety 


Henry  Vincent  came,  the  eloquent  British  patriot;  Joseph  Cook  of 
massive  brow  and  brain,  Mary  Livermore,  Henry  Ward  Beecher,  at  both 
church  and  chapel;  Theodore  Tilton  (under  sufferance),  Wendell  Phillips 
the  silver-tongued,  Bronson  Alcott  of  Concord  in  a  parlor  "conversation," 
John  G.  Saxe  reading  his  own  poems,  "Proud  Miss  McBride"  and  others ; 
Jessie  Couthoui,  always  entertaining  and  always  twelve  years  old;  Mrs. 
Scott  Siddons  as  Lady  Macbeth,  Bayard  Taylor  on  the  Rosetti  stone,  Paul 
du  Chaillu  the  African  traveler,  David  Swing  on  "The  Ideal  Novel,  the 
Novel  of  the  Future" ;  Robert  J.  Burdette,  when  he  was  Bob  Burdette  of  the 
Burlington  Hawkeye  and  "The  Rise  and  Fall  of  the  Moustache"  was  a  new 
lecture;  Thos.  Nast  with  crayon,  Camilla  Urso  and  the  Hungarian  Re- 
menyi  with  their  violins,  and  many  sweet  singers. 

What  inspiration  breathed  from  those  orators  and  explorers  and 
artists.  What  fires  of  ambition  they  kindled,  what  enthusiasm  for  the  ideal. 

Young  folks  do  not  often  absorb  the  ideas  which  hold  them,  either 
from  books  or  from  preachments.  They  catch  them  from  people. 

Page  ninety-one 


Was  it  not  good  that  children  born  and  brought  up  in  the  little  west- 
ern town  could  come  in  touch  with  so  many  great  souls  and  minds.  The 
parents  of  the  Old  Home  saw  to  it  that  no  matter  how  few  their  dollars 
were,  there  was  never  lacking  the  price  of  a  real  "opportunity"  for  the 
children. 

Somehow  the  influence  of  the  good  people  who  walked  those  streets 
seemed  to  blend  with  the  influence  of  church  and  school  and  platform  and 
form  one  harmony.  It  was  the  Voice  of  the  town.  It  spoke  for  democ- 
racy, for  respect  for  work  which  is  service,  and  it  reverenced  culture  as 
a  high  privilege. 

I  seem  to  hear  it  as  it  said  to  those  young  folks  in  tones  not  solemn 
but  serious, — 

Respect  yourself  and  others. 

Do  something  worth  doing. 

First  get  ready;  learn  how. 

Good  precepts,  though  they  are  old-fashioned. 

Page  ninety-two 


AS  WE  SAY  GOOD-BY 


It  is  easy  to  praise  past  days  and  ways  but  we  must  not  say  that  the 
former  times  were  better  than  these. 

The  light  that  made  the  Old  Home  beautiful  still  shines.  Not  even 
the  greed  of  things  and  the  passion  for  parade  can  darken  it.  The  cry  for 
the  simple  life,  the  slogan  "back  to  nature",  the  eager  appetite  for  the  old 
truths  called  New  Thought,  all  are  witnesses  that  the  things  of  the  spirit 
have  not  been  overwhelmed  by  the  material.  They  all  are  reflections  of 
the  Old  Home  light. 

And  everywhere  from  cottage  and  from  palace,  in  the  field  and  by  the 
sea,  the  light  is  shining  in  a  bright  and  steady  flame.  It  glows  wherever 
dwells  a  quiet  spirit,  a  heart  set  on  high  purposes  and  content  with  pure 
joys. 

Page  ninety-three 


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